


Sleep Of The Sated

by RussianWitch



Series: Kinktober2018 [10]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Hair-pulling, Kinktober 2018, M/M, Manhandling, Rough Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-12
Updated: 2018-10-12
Packaged: 2019-07-29 23:09:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16274279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RussianWitch/pseuds/RussianWitch
Summary: Day 10Early morning smut.





	Sleep Of The Sated

**Author's Note:**

> not beta read

He wakes up with a sharp knee in the small of his back—again.

Sunlight blinding him where the bedroom curtains have once again been forgotten.

And yet—balancing precariously on the edge of the bed, John manages to turn onto his other side without getting kneed in the bullocks—it isn't as bad as all that.

Sherlock, sleeping the sleep of the under-socialised and entitled, sprawls across most of the bed in a combination of sharp angles and feline grace that John hasn't managed to figure out even after long-term study.

Medical professional that he is, John should be able to explain away the attractiveness siting muscle ratios and bone structure, genetic advantage, and statistics...

"Shut up!" Sherlock mumbles into the pillow, his fingers digging painfully into John's side.

"Auw!" He cries, "what that for?" Grabbing the bony wrist and twisting it until his bedmate hisses, and one grey eye appears to glare.

"Stop _thinking_ , you're too *loud*!"

"I—can get up?" John offers, secretly gratified when instead of answering Sherlock drapes himself over John's chest at the suggestion.

"Just go to sleep!" He grumbles against John's belly.

He would, but the downside of Sherlock using him for a pillow is that Sherlock's hair tickles.

John tries, he really does but lying still just isn't possible.

Trying not to squirm too hard, he pets Sherlock's hair in an attempt to push it away from the more sensitive spots which only brings more of Sherlock's displeasure.

"John!" The consulting detective whines and John is forced to swallow another giggle.

"Sorry," he hiccups somewhat insincerely and gets bit in retaliation.

Pinning his hips, Sherlock bites his way down John's lower belly grumbling when his pyjama pants get in the way.

"Shut up, John!" Sherlock tells John's cock, freeing it from its cloth prison.

John—shuts up, blindly grabbing for another pillow to shove under his head so he can watch in comfort.

Sherlock hums rubbing his unshaven cheek lightly against the base of John's cock, his breath cool on the sleep-warmed skin, the stubble on his cheeks stings but doesn't keep John from getting hard.

Teasing bastard, John thinks reaching down to dig a hand into Sherlock's hair, tugging at it until the man is glaring up at him again.

"Stop pissing about!" He says, giving Sherlock a good shake.

If there is one thing, his hair is good for outside of clogging up the shower gutter and tickling...

Sherlock tugs against his grip his eyes falling shut, the long, pale throat making John's mouth water.

"I do _not_ piss about," he says primly, seemingly unaffected by the situation he's instigated, only John catches the barely there shimmy of Sherlock's hips against the mattress.

"Now, Sherlock," he orders, and with a full body shudder, Sherlock lunges forward once again wrapping his lips around John's cock.

John tightens his hand in Sherlock's hair in encouragement, forcing himself not to blink and miss even a second.

Sherlock sucking cock is a beautiful sight.

The world could end, John thinks, and Sherlock wouldn't notice too focused on twisting his tongue just so and making John see stars while trying not to go off like a schoolboy.

Shifting between John's legs, Sherlock takes him deeper, and John needs to hold on with both hands.

John can feel himself nudge at the back of Sherlock's throat, feel Sherlock's breath on his short hairs, and it takes all of his willpower not to give in and thrust, especially when his lover looks up at him smugly, his lips red and swollen around John's cock.

"Fuck!" He pants, twisting dark curls around his trembling fingers, "fuck! You have to let me—"

It's not polite to ask someone to fuck their face without prior conversation, but Sherlock blinks slowly, reaching up to take hold of John's wrist and guide him into forcing himself down further onto John's cock.

"Ta!" He feels stupid as soon as it leaves his mouth, but he doesn't have time to feel properly embarrassed about it, not given permission to fuck up into Sherlock's mouth, to force him down when Sherlock tries to pull away.

Pale skin turns red from the strain, and stormy eyes start gleaming with tears, every sign of strain brings John closer to the edge and yet they aren't enough.

Wrenching himself out of Sherlock's mouth is almost physically painful, he does it anyway ignoring Sherlock's horse protest.

Rolling to his knees, John drags his lover higher up the bed using his hair as a handle, shoving Sherlock onto his back so he can straddle the narrow chest.

Sinking back into the panting mouth is a religious experience.

John teases them both by slowing down, waiting half a dozen breaths after every inch and pulling back out when Sherlock tries to speed things up until he's all the way in.

With a trembling hand, he reaches under his balls, finding Sherlock's throat by feel and strokes feeling the pressure around his cock increase.

Sherlock's nails sink into his hips, his body shakes, and for an instant, John thinks he's fucked up—then something wet splattering on his back registers right before Sherlock starts swallowing around him.

John stops thinking for a while.

His balls give everything he's got, possibly he howls his release for the whole street to hear. His brain returns to working condition as Sherlock rolls him onto his side of the bed, throwing the covers over the both of them.

"Now, sleep!" The detective orders and John can't quite find it in himself to argue.


End file.
